That old bookstore we forgot

I saw her sitting alone at the farthest corner of the bookstore café; the place that, once, was the center of everything we did. It had been four years since I left my school and got dragged into college, leaving my habit of reading and pondering over literature.
She was a natural red-hair, pale wheat skin, thin lips and flawless skin as far as I could remember her from the school days. She looked the same today, except dark sunken eyes, parched lips and messed up hair. For a moment, my heart skipped beats the same way it used to, in those days for her. I kept myself distant, buying an opposite cornered table placed in the inner most dark alley of the tanned coffee shop that had a large book space for people who had a taste in  literature as much as in Affogato. It was an abode to students who got low grades, old folks whom no one cared, women who weren’t allowed to read, corporates who had bought some time from their bosses and HRs and people who were fond of watching their crushes from a safe distance, thus it was named Coward’s café; a place where every bold decision of life was taken. During my school days, I had a khaki membership card for this place to get coffee and book whenever I came here during the month.
Legends say, the guy who started this place was left out on the streets by his family when he couldn’t pass his semesters. All he had was his books and a few pennies, of which he had bought a cup of coffee during winter of 2003. That’s when he decided to open this place.
She was peering deeply into a book in pearl grey cover, its white pages reflecting on her face, making it even detailed. For almost fifteen relative minutes, I kept waiting for her to remove her eyes from the pages and look up. I needed to make her realize, I was here too. After all these years, we had bumped. I called in the waiter and ordered brownies with hot espresso and a special offer to put a repeat on her table. But then something told me, it wasn’t going to be this way and I cancelled the repeat. She was hooked still, not even bothered by the 3 p.m. sun setting over the low roofs to the town. Her locks shimmered in hue of golden amber.
I remember her being the only one interested in my trash stories and poems I wrote to impress her, and also because I enjoyed writing anything. My teachers would not seem parallel about my grades but they too, couldn’t resist praising my midnight poems that sometimes flashed through my mind. Actually, to me, stories and poems come to me in their best way, when I m either troubled or sleepy.
My brownies were over. Her coffee was done and she kept reading unfettered by the stratosphere. She showed no interest in closing the book when all of the sudden, her eyes met mine and it felt like a fucking spear through my chest. After a split second of lookover, she went back to the world of letters from where she had pretended to come, like a fish out of water to breathe. I kept waiting foolishly like Hemingway’s Santiago.
After some more of waiting, she got a call on her cell phone and walked out with her baguette keeping her book inside. I sat there confused and shaken by the fact, if, by any chance, she had failed to recognize me. I hadn’t brought any stuff to read, nor did I plan to; so I tucked the tip and walked past her table when something shiny caught my attention. It was a beautifully handwritten note. I knew the writing. Yes I did. It said: Don’t pay the bill. I paid for you.